


Five Times Lestrade was there for Victor and Sherlock, and One Time They Were There for Him

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Tumblr Fics [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Abuse (mentioned), Father Figures, Five Times, M/M, Relationship Trouble, Unsafe Living Conditions, house fire, pseudo-sons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the title says: five times Victor and Sherlock needed Lestrade’s help, and one time they helped him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Lestrade was there for Victor and Sherlock, and One Time They Were There for Him

**Author's Note:**

> This series contains a stand alone stories that were prompted or otherwise posted on my tumblr page. They have not been beta'd and are just flights of fancy.
> 
> Feel free to let me know if you see any mistakes.

**Five times Victor and Sherlock needed Lestrade’s help, and one time they helped him.**

1\. There’s a murder on the top floor of a rundown apartment building. Hookers, transients, drug addicts, and those bordering on the homeless make up the building’s otherwise respectable tenants. When Lestrade walks in, surrounded by his various colleagues, he is prepared for the worst reception possible. He gets it.

 

They glare are him, curse at him under their breaths, and blame him for their lot in life. As officers march up and down the stairs carrying evidence bags and organizing equipment, they are subjected to each one of the tenants’ vitriol filled anger and dissatisfaction. Lestrade knows that at least five or six of them know what transpired with their victim. None of them are talking.

 

Things are only made worse when the rain stars and on top of everything else they become drenched. The smell of mold permeates the air, and Lestrade feels like the floor could cave in underneath them at anytime. It’s nauseating. He spends most of the day swallowing bile and knocking on the doors of every person who lived there. He suffered through their horrible litany of responses, and struggled to pretend this day wasn’t bloody awful.

 

By the time he made it down to the second floor, he was about ready to throw in the towel. He lifted his hand to knock on the door, only to be cut off by an absurdly polite interlude. “Can I help you, officer?” The young man before him didn’t look like any of the others he’d spoken to. He was still poorly dressed, with a faded jacket over an even more faded striped button up. His Jeans were frayed at the knees, and his boots had seen better days. Around his neck was a black chord hanging one of those weird Egyptian cross things that Lestrade never knew the name of. The man was stout, with broad shoulders and a square jaw. Short black hair, slightly spiked, poked out of his scalp, and while he was more strongly built than the waifs that usually lived in this building, Lestrade didn’t put it passed the man from having something to do with illegal activities. He was holding a bag of groceries under one arm, and had a set of keys in his spare hand.

 

“Yes, actually. Do you live here?” He asked, motioning towards the door.

 

“Yeah, give me a tick and I’ll let you in.” The man offered, stepping passed him and sliding the key into the lock. Lestrade waited for a second, watching as the man opened the door with practiced ease. He caught it with the side of his foot to keep it from slamming open, and stood to the side to let Lestrade slip passed him.

 

“Sherlock, I’m home!” The man called out, kicking the door shut once Lestrade was fully in the flat. It was a desolate place. The kitchen bled into the living room, and a toilet could just be seen peeking out behind a screen. This wouldn’t pass any health and safety inspections, Lestrade was sure of it. At first, Lestrade didn’t even see who the man was talking to, but eventually he saw a curtain hanging down from the ceiling that cut off the last small corner of the room.

 

“Who’s with you?” A low voice, asked.

 

“Scotland Yard, your favorite, come out and play nice.” Lestrade watched as the man walked over to a rickety table and set his bag of groceries down. The curtain was pushed to the side and a head poked out. Dark curly hair and a long face with sharp eyes. Thin and gaunt – just like everyone else in this place.

 

“You’re here about Emily Price?” The curly-haired man asked.

 

“Yes, actually. What’s your name?” Lestrade pulled his notebook out and prepared to start writing.

 

“Ugh, are we actually doing this?”

 

“Sherlock Holmes.” The first man offered, rolling his eyes. “His name is Sherlock Holmes, and he’s delighted to have you here. He’s also not eaten in three days, so when I order him to come out of his hiding spot and have this box of crackers. He’s going to.”

 

“Am I?” Sherlock asked miserably, though he was already starting to move. He swayed slightly upon standing, and stumbled across the floor to reach his companion’s side. The box was handed to him earnestly, and Lestrade wondered if he really hadn’t eaten in that long. “Well, this is Victor Trevor, and he’s a busybody who sticks his nose into everything.” Sherlock introduced, glancing over towards him with a bored expression.

 

Sherlock’s fingers dug into the cardboard, ripping it open to reveal the crackers inside. Lestrade watched his bony wrists slip peek out of his shirtsleeves as his long fingers reached for his first bite. “Emily Price had an abusive boyfriend for the past six months. His name was Peirce Flannigan. He’s a dockworker by Canary Warf. She spends her time shooting speedballs to avoid thinking about how tragically her life turned out, and Peirce whores her out while she’s high and can’t think about it. She ran out of money last week, and stole some from him while he was sleeping off a drinking binge. She bought some smack, and has been using it since. From the yelling- he found out about her theft.” Sherlock delivered the entire story without glancing at Lestrade once. He stuffed a cracker into his mouth and chewed it messily, swallowing too quickly, and then getting another.

 

“How do you know all of this?” Lestrade asked, wishing the sight of Sherlock’s rapid eating wasn’t making him more sick than the smell outside. Victor guided Sherlock’s hand away from the crackers just long enough to press a bottle of water into it. Sherlock looked startled for a moment, and he looked up at Victor in surprise.

 

“It’s better than this rot.” Victor muttered, before returning to the meager groceries he’d purchased. Lestrade watched him unpack. Everything was the cheapest food possible. Canned goods and dried foods that would last a while but weren’t healthy in the slightest. The worst was the package of powered milk.

 

Bottled water was a luxury. Lestrade’s eyes slipped to the sink. The faucet was rusted, and from what pipes he could see: so were they. The water was bound to be foul. “I listen.” Sherlock finally said, answering Lestrade’s initial question with a defiant tilt of his chin. “I listen, and I observe, and I _know_.”

 

“How old are you?” Lestrade blurted out.

 

“Twenty-six. Problem?”

 

“No.” Lestrade shook his head. “None.” He frowned and looked down at his page, before continuing. “What do you do for a living?”

 

“You mean when I’m not answering questions for police officers who can’t do their job’s on their own?” Sherlock asked darkly. Victor murmured his name, warning in his tone.

 

“Emily was a good person.” Victor told Lestrade quietly. “She had a good heart, despite her drug use.”

 

“Most people do.” Lestrade agreed. “Were you close?”

 

“We helped her carry her things in every so often. I know some first-aid. We patched her up when things got rough.”

 

“No hospital visit?” He asked curiously.

 

“Look around, Officer. How many people here do you see wanting to go to the hospital? We’re a building of people with things to hide. Hospitals bring about questions, and some we don’t want to answer.” He understood that point, he did, but it didn’t change the fact that he wished it were different. 

 

“What do you two do for a living?” He was almost afraid to ask.

 

“Finishing up our PhDs.” Victor replied, surprising him. The answer wasn’t at all what he was expecting. They both seemed were far too young for that, and he always imagined PhDs to be living in placed far nicer than this squalor. “I’m reading for Archaeology, and this ray of sunshine is in for Chemistry.”

 

“What are you doing in a place like this?”

 

“Chemists are actually quite preferable in places like this.” Sherlock had the audacity to mutter, earning him a sharp swat upside the head from Victor.

 

“We…declined financial assistance from outside parties for personal reasons. We have a monthly stipend for work at the University, and oddly enough- it affords this place and little else.” That seemed unduly barbaric.

 

“Does the school know about your living situations?”

 

“It’s none of the school’s business.” Sherlock hissed.

 

“Our families don’t exactly support out life choices.” Victor explained carefully. “If we inform the school, they’re obligated to contact our families to find an alternative situation.” Lestrade glanced between them, taking in their proximity to one another, and their obvious familiarity. This wasn’t right. Not at all.

 

Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a business card and held it out for them to take. Sherlock, rather predictably considering his surly nature, didn’t even glance at it. Victor took it. “It’s not my place to say this, but I’m going to do it anyway. If you need help with anything, let me know. And I mean, _anything_. You two are obviously strapped for money, and if I can help-”

 

“Why would you do that?” Sherlock asked, abrasive façade dropping just long enough for Lestrade to catch a glimpse of vulnerability dance across his face.

 

“Because unlike everyone else I’ve had the misfortune of meeting today, you two actually are trying to get ahead in life. You deserve any break you can get.” Victor quietly accepted the card.

 

“Thank you.” He said sincerely. Lestrade wondered if either would bother to call the number. He hoped they would.

 

When he returned home that night, he told Marissa about the two boys he met and the life they were leading. She’d made him a roast for dinner, with so many sides that he couldn’t help but feel blessed to have the food before him. Guilt was just one of many emotions he felt. He was eating this lovely warm meal, when he knew for a fact that tonight: Sherlock and Victor would be sharing a box of crackers, discussing how they would ration it until their next stipend disbursement came in. He wondered what was worse, refusing to eat the food that he had, because he was well off enough to do that, or eating it all knowing that they wouldn’t have the luxury. Both made him feel sick.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

2\. It was nearly two in the morning when his phone jarred him awake. Marissa murmured sleepily, and Lestrade kissed her head, before hurrying out of the room to answer the incessant noise. “Hello?” He asked, rubbing his eyes and wincing as his sleep gargled voice barely formed the word he’d intended.

 

“…Sergeant Lestrade?” He didn’t recognize the voice on the other end. It sounded worried, though. Uncertain. He flicked the light on in the kitchen, and slumped into a chair.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Who is this?” He asked, trying to wake himself up.

 

“Sherlock Holmes.” He didn’t recognize the name. “You gave us your card…said you could help?” His brain finally found the correct memory and he was startled into full alert.

 

“Yeah, yeah. What’s going on? Are you two all right?”

 

“Victor’s sick.” Sherlock whispered. It was so soft Lestrade had to strain to hear it. “He’s not getting better. I don’t know what to do.”

 

“Calm down. Calm down, kid. Start from the beginning. What’s wrong with him?”

 

“He has a fever, and he keeps throwing up. We’re out of water; he can’t get out of bed anymore. I know he’s dehydrated, but I don’t-” _have the money to buy him more_. Lestrade cursed. Sherlock’s voice had cut off, but his meaning was clear.

 

“You two still in that squalor?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I’ll be there in twenty. Try to keep him awake for me, okay?” Sherlock murmured his affirmative, and Lestrade hung up the phone. He returned to his wife, and kissed her awake. “I need to go.”

 

“Be safe.” She mumbled sleepily. He promised he would.

 

He found a twenty-four hour chemists and purchased a strong fever reducer, as well as an antacid and nausea reliever. He selected a twenty-four pack of water and purchased that too. From there, it only took him another seven minutes to get to their flat.

 

He knocked briskly on the door, and Sherlock pulled it open. There was a chain in place, and he waited for Sherlock to recognize him, before the door closed again for the chain to be released. Sherlock stepped aside, and Lestrade caught sight of the bat in his left hand.

 

“Good boy.” He praised. Sherlock didn’t respond, he just shut and locked the door firmly before leading Lestrade to where Victor was sprawled on their futon. There weren’t any lights on, but rather candles burning around the flat like will-o-wisps in the dark. Sherlock didn’t even try to flick a switch. Lestrade shuddered to think about Not even a full bed. Just a decrepit futon on the ground. He admired their tenacity at the very least. “Victor?” he asked quietly. “It’s Sergeant Lestrade, we met a few months ago?”

 

His skin was clammy to the touch, and while his flesh burned hotly, he was still very pale. He looked thoroughly miserable, and was shivering violently under the threadbare blanket thrown over him. Sherlock was hovering anxiously nearby, twisting his hands into knots.

 

“It’s a stomach bug. Nothing worse. Except…we don’t…I didn’t…” Sherlock was scared. He was terrified. He knew chemistry; biology likely wasn’t out of his realm of understanding. He knew the dangers of this type of illness. He knew it was easily cured…but only if it was managed to begin with. They didn’t have the money to spare on anything else. They were completely tapped out.

 

“‘S fine, Will.” Victor murmured, reaching out a hand clumsily to smack awkwardly against Sherlock’s leg.

 

“You’re not fine.” Sherlock insisted. “You’re….” He faltered, and looked to Lestrade. “Tell him he’s not fine.”

 

“You look pretty sick to me. Here, I’ve got some water for you.”

 

“Water’s no good.” Victor slurred, shaking his head.

 

“This water is. Bottled, good and fresh.” Lestrade insisted. He uncapped the lid of the first one and carefully brought it to Victor’s lips. “Come on, lad. Take a sip for us.” Lestrade could feel the heat coming off Victor’s skin as he guided him to drink. His fever was high. Very high. “I have some pills I need you to take. Think you can keep them down?”

 

“He’s been sick every forty-three minutes.” Sherlock quickly informed. “He started dry heaving an hour ago.”

 

“Okay. We’ll have a few goes at this then.” Lestrade said. He tore open the first package, and Victor fumbled with it before he finally managed to swallow. Then they repeated the process for the other ones. Sherlock hovered nervously, clinging to Victor’s arm the whole while.

 

It took time, Victor’s stomach recoiled at the attempt to pry pills into it. He choked as he tried to swallow the bile, rather than lose the precious medicine that would make him better. When it was obviously a futile effort, he gagged into a pot that Sherlock had set up for him. He couldn’t even make it to their useless toilet.

 

“It clogged earlier today. The landlord can’t fix it until next week.” Sherlock explained anyway.

 

The pot Victor was using was one of the few kitchenware pieces that they even owned. Lestrade grimaced as he watched it become more foul with each passing minute. “You two need another place to live.”

 

“We can’t afford another place to live.” Sherlock snapped, fingers going tight on Victor’s sleeve as he groaned in pain. They just managed to put another set of pills in him, and had him drink some more water.

 

“How much more do you need? To get a new flat and actually afford groceries?” Lestrade asked, looking around them. They barely had any furniture, their flat was completely empty. The only thing of value in the whole place was a stack of thick textbooks in the corner of the room, separated by genre: archaeology for one stack, chemistry for the other. A violin case rested next to it, and Lestrade imagined it was one of the few personal items that either student allowed themselves.

 

“Another three hundred pounds, per month.” It was more than he suspected, but anything was better than this place.

 

“If I give you the money, will you two please get another place to live?” Sherlock recoiled, staring at the man in dumb shock.

 

“I don’t…understand. Why would you do that? People don’t just do things like that. It’s illogical.”

 

“You can’t even buy medicine, and your toilet doesn’t work. Do you even have electricity here? What are you going to do when winter comes?”

 

“I-”

 

“Look, I’ll help you find another place to live, all right? We’ll get you two sorted. We’ll make it a loan if you want. I help you out and when you finish your degrees you can pay me back. If you can’t pay me back ever, then fine- no big deal. But you two are going to die if you keep it up like this.”

 

Victor was too out of it to pay attention. He was shivering violently and fading in and out of consciousness. Sherlock rolled the fabric of Victor’s sleeve between his fingers. “I’ll think about it.” Sherlock told Lestrade quietly. Lestrade nodded.

 

“Thank you for calling me.” He said, giving Sherlock’s arm a squeeze. “You did the right thing, lad.” Sherlock didn’t reply, just lowered his gaze to Victor’s sweat stained face.

 

It was going to be a long night.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

3\. Lestrade was on his way home from work nearly six weeks later when he ran into the boys on accident. He hadn’t given much thought to what part of town his latest case had dropped him off in, and by the time he’d realized how close to the boys’ flat he was, he had accidentally bumped into them.

 

Victor looked better. His skin had regained its color, and his eyes were clearer. No signs of illness lingered, and he immediately smiled at him. Sherlock still looked as sullen as ever, hands stuck in his pockets and shoulders bunched up. It seemed the slight vulnerability he’d revealed when he’d asked Lestrade for help had disappeared entirely.

 

Lestrade had been checking in on them every other day or so. They turned him down on his offer of help, but agreed to keep in touch to let him know how they were doing. Victor was usually the one he spoke with, Sherlock avoiding phones like the plague if he could manage it. He hated talking on the phone, apparently. Said it didn’t give him enough data, whatever that meant.

 

“It’s good to see you!” Victor said, regardless. He took hold of Lestrade’s hand and shook it firmly.

 

“And you, how’re you doing?” Lestrade asked, turning to Sherlock who gave in to social delicacy and gave his palm a firm squeeze. He pulled back almost as soon as their hands touched, however, and looked away.

 

“Good, very good. Thank you for your help. I appreciate it.” Victor said, smiling. “Sherlock does too, even if he likes acting blasé about it.” Sherlock murmured some vowels and consonants that twisted and turned together, coming up as anything but English. Lestrade blinked in surprise, even as Victor started laughing. “Sherlock says ‘thank you.’” Victor translated, though from Sherlock’s expression, that was anything _but_ what he’d intended to convey.

 

“You holding up all right?” He regretted not keeping track of them better. When he’d returned to work, he was thrust into a case that never seemed to end, and then another one just after that. He barely had time to himself, let alone visiting two students in dire housing conditions.

 

“Yes, doing much better. That job I told you about is going good so far. Managed to pick up some work around our the school hours.” Victor smiled. “We actually can afford a week’s supply worth of clean water now.” It shouldn’t have sounded like a victory.

 

It did.

 

Lestrade found himself walking with them. He listened as Victor did most of the talking, occasionally dragging Sherlock in to say a word or two on whatever subject he was bringing up. Sherlock was quiet for the most part, offering a rude word or comment here or there that would explain his perspective on things. There was rarely any heat to it. He seemed to enjoy being rude for the sake of it more than anything else. It was as though he had spent a life being forced to conform to a perfect bubble of polite behavior, and had finally been given permission to let a few words slip.

 

He asked them about their PhDs and what they were specifically working on. Sherlock immediately jumped into a lengthy tirade about covalent bonds and molecular structures that went straight over Lestrade’s head. Victor gave him a wink behind Sherlock’s back, and the Sergeant smiled at the motion.

 

A fire truck wailed passed them while Sherlock was finishing his dissertation on whatever he was talking about, and Lestrade hurried to his next question before Sherlock tried explaining another topic he didn’t understand. “How’d you two meet?”

 

“My dog bit him!” Victor said, laughing. “He was walking about, minding his own business, and my dog just latched onto his ankle. Put him on crutches for nearly two weeks it was so swollen.”

 

“I didn’t know you had a dog.” He certainly hadn’t seen it.

 

“He passed away two or three years ago. Barmy thing. I do miss it sometimes, though.”

 

“Stupid dog.” Sherlock muttered, grimacing as the memory clearly flashed through his mind.

 

“Yeah, he never really took too kindly to Sherlock.” Victor conceded. “What about you, Sergeant? How’d you meet your missus?” Lestrade followed his gaze to the gold wedding band around his left ring finger. He twisted it fondly.

 

“Blind date, my brother set us up. We hit it off, and after four years, got married. She’s a good girl, my Marissa.”

 

“Good on you. That’s real-”

 

“Our flat’s on fire.” Sherlock said suddenly. Victor’s head whipped about, and Lestrade’s joined him. Sure enough, the fire truck that had passed them only a few minutes ago was parked outside of the complex, pumping water through windows as the top floors of he building became engulfed in flames.

 

Sherlock was off like a shot before anyone could stop him. “Will! No!” Victor shouted, rushing after him, and Lestrade was hot on their heels. Sherlock barreled passed one of the fire fighters, and somehow managed to get inside the building before anyone could snatch him.

 

More prepared for Victor when he got there, the emergency workers threw their hands out. “You can’t go inside.” They informed him, struggling to push him back. Victor wasn’t listening. He pivoted on one foot, and threw his body weight into them until they stumbled backwards. With a clear shot to the door, he followed hot on his partner’s heels.

 

Lestrade just followed in his wake, yelling for both of them to stop even as the first smell of smoke assailed his nostrils. He ran up the stairs, ignoring escaping civilians and firefighters alike. The second floor was closest to the blaze, and while it hadn’t turned into an inferno yet, it was fast becoming more likely.

 

Lestrade shoved open the door to the boys’ flat. Victor was shouting at Sherlock, yelling for him to knock it off and come down _immediately._ Even as he was yelling, he was grabbing at textbooks and paperwork that was thrown across the floor, pushing all of it onto one of their awful blankets and clearly preparing to just bundle them up and hoist them all out in one go.

 

Sherlock’s arms were wrapped tightly around his violin, shaking slightly as he struggled to snatch textbooks and research while still maintaining the violin’s precarious position in his arms. Lestrade surged forwards, scooping up books even as he gripped the back of Sherlock’s neck. “We got this, get out now. _Go._ ” Sherlock blinked at him, before sliding his eyes to Victor. He didn’t seem to have realized they were there in the first place, and his reckless decision finally caught up with him.

 

Sherlock turned to the door, and froze. It was engulfed in flames. Fire was licking its way across their walls, and Lestrade had a brief moment of panic before he went to the window. He shoved at the frame, struggling to push it open. Nothing.

 

Victor finished with their book bundle, and finally noticed the fire that was creeping towards them, closer and closer. “Will, get over here, _now_.” Victor snapped. Sherlock had been shocked into place, and Lestrade grimaced. As smart as he was, he didn’t handle change well.

 

Lestrade pulled his jacket off and wrapped his hand and arm in it. He aimed for his target and then rocketed a punch through the window as hard as he could. Glass shattered everywhere, the fire burst with an extra gust of enthusiasm. Victor was soon at his side, shoving glass out of the way and fighting to get the window capable of escape.

 

There _was_ an actual fire escape attached to the side of the building, and Lestrade hoped that unlike everything else in this place, it wasn’t falling to shambles. From the way the window hadn’t opened – he doubted it. Victor took the bundle of books and all but threw it out the window. It rolled over the corner of the fire escape and sailed to the ground below- landing with a loud _thunk_ that almost surely spelled the end of spines and perfectly in tact pages.

 

Nobody cared one bit.

 

Sherlock was still frozen in the center of the room, staring at the fire in horror. Lestrade caught him by the arm and pulled him towards the window. “Get out. Go. Now.” He instructed, and it finally snapped the chemist out of his daze. He scrambled through the window, cutting his hand on the way out, but holding onto his violin for dear life. “You next.” Lestrade told Victor, all but hauling the younger man through it and getting him out of the building.

 

He scrambled after them, and soon they began their descent. Sherlock was near the bottom already, activating ladders to drop and awkwardly managing each rung despite his load. They had almost made it to the bottom when there was an ominous creak and suddenly the metal screeched loudly in dismay and tore from the side of the building. Lestrade clung for dear life as the whole blasted contraption swung towards the ground.

 

Sherlock fell, still trying to hold onto his violin despite the more obvious problem of them preparing to die over his misstep. He curled around the instrument, landing on his shoulder and rolling gasping in pain as he came to a stop on top of one of his textbooks. Victor and Lestrade had managed to hold on, just barely. The fire escape, was still somewhat attached to the wall, but was now tilted almost entirely vertical, twisted and awkward.

 

Victor was only another six feet from the ground and he swung and rolled, taking the hit and going with it rather than staying up on the blasted piece of metal any longer than he had to. Lestrade carefully released his handhold from where he’d been clinging for dear life. He slid to the edge of what used to be the first floor platform, and then he wiggled until he was able to drop to the ground below. The fall was more jarring than painful, and he grimaced as the shock shook through his knees.

 

Victor helped him stand up right. “You okay?” He asked, worry clearly displayed on his face.

 

“Fine.” Lestrade replied, patting his arm. “You?”

 

“Just ducky.” Victor turned towards Sherlock.

 

“Will?”

 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Sherlock is looking up at them, shaking badly in shock as his eyes went from the fire escape to the flames still licking out of their flat window. Victor crouched at his side.

 

“I’m so furious with you right now.” He informed Sherlock primly, before tugging him to his chest and holding him tight. Sherlock’s violin, somehow still in perfect condition despite the trauma it endured to make it out of the flat – lay in the dirt beside them.

 

Lestrade reached for the bundle of books Victor had thrown together, and started to collect the strays that had fallen onto the ground. “Let me give my wife a call.” He found himself telling them. “You can stay with us tonight.”

 

He knows neither have the money for a hotel, or _anywhere_ else. Frankly, after the string of bad luck they’d been having, he doesn’t know if letting them out of his sight is the best thing to do.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

4\. Lestrade frowned as he approached the front door to Victor and Sherlock’s latest flat. It was open somewhat, and he could hear voices inside. He pressed a hand against the wood, and slipped into the crack, frowning as he heard an unfamiliar man yelling for Sherlock to grow up. He closed the door quietly behind him, and followed the voices down the hall.

 

The boys had spent two weeks with him, and during that time they had charmed his wife into believing they were angels. She immediately berated him for not bringing them home to start with, and went on a crusade to track down fair lodging for them. She succeeded. Their current flat was cheap, but functional. The water was good, the electricity was affordable, and they could even manage to buy groceries that didn’t leave them with food poisoning the night afterwards. They even had a bedroom that didn’t serve as a living room/bathroom.

 

Lestrade liked their new home, and stopped by at least once a week to make sure they were doing all right. He didn’t know why he did. He didn’t do it for any of the other people he’d assisted during his career, but he couldn’t seem to let the boys go. They were young, honest, and looking forwards to their lives and futures together. They had become friends over the past year they’d known each other.

 

In a few days, they’d both be receiving the degrees they fought so hard for. He was looking forwards to the ceremony. Marissa had already planned a party for them, and his job tonight was to convince them both to attend. Sherlock didn’t like gatherings of any kind, preferring to slink off in solitude rather than join any group. Lestrade thought he could manage to convince him just this once, however. It was a big day.

 

As Lestrade approached the room where all the shouting was taking place, he reflected that the never actually saw the boys interacting with anyone else. They were usually alone, standing side by side and entertaining only each other. In all the time they’d known each other, Lestrade couldn’t name a single other friend or family member they might have had. It was…bizarre actually.

 

“I’m not a child, Mycroft, you cannot simply march into my home, my _life,_ and tell me what to do!” Sherlock insisted, just as Lestrade rounded the bend to see the trouble in all its glory.

 

Sherlock was wearing a shirt inside out, and dark flannel sleep pants. Marissa had bought him the outfit after the fire, insisting that he wear something warm to bed. Victor was just behind him, arms crossed over his chest, sullen and miserable. The archeologist-to-be saw him immediately, and cut Sherlock’s next remark off with a sharp “Will.”

 

They’d explained it to Lestrade months ago. Sherlock’s real name was ‘William,’ but he only went by ‘Sherlock’ to everyone else. Victor, apparently, was the only one who was allowed to use that name. Lestrade never bothered to try. It seemed far too personal.

 

Sherlock and the Mycroft fellow turned to look at Lestrade, the former becoming more tense while the former just seemed annoyed. “Sergeant Lestrade.” Mycroft stated flatly. “Victor’s new paramour.”

 

“Mycroft.” Victor hissed, stepping forwards. “That’s enough.”

 

“Enough? Don’t tell me that you truly expect me to believe that you and my brother intend to continue this little farce of yours.” Mycroft scoffed. Lestrade looked between Sherlock and the man in confusion. He had no idea what was going on here, but he was vaguely certain that Sherlock was being insulted in the worst way. The chemist’s shoulders were sagging and his head was starting to turn away, bleak and uncomfortable.

 

“You can believe in Father Christmas for all I care.” Victor informed Mycroft sharply, snatching Sherlock’s wrist and giving in a squeeze. “Truth is, I don’t think it’s your business, or ever will be. So you can back right off with your judgments and beliefs, and show yourself out the door.”

 

“I haven’t received your response to my offer yet. Either of yours.”

 

“After this display? You can probably take it to be negative. Now back off.”

 

“Don’t be childish.” Mycroft scoffed.

 

“Says the man incapable of believing we could be in a relationship with each other without ever having sex.” Victor said with a laugh.

 

Lestrade blinked at that. He’d never really considered Sherlock and Victor’s sex life. It had always seemed implicit. They were close, obviously close. They leaned into each other, smiled at each other, finished each other’s jokes and laughed at hidden ones. He had seen them cling onto each other for dear life after that fire, watched Victor keep a hand steady on Sherlock’s arm as they stumbled into his flat – only an our after losing their home.

 

He had checked in on them in the morning, found Sherlock still awake – looking at Victor like he’d vanish the moment he looked away. _I almost got him killed._ Sherlock had told him quietly. _For a dozen books and a worthless violin_. A worthless violin, Lestrade discovered later, that had been the only gift Sherlock’s grandmother had given him before her death, a worthless violin that he played like an angel, and earned money from a chamber orchestra with, a worthless violin that despite the fact they were starving in that flat he never once sold.

 

Sherlock had been prepared to smash it to pieces once reality set in, and he’d realized the full consequences of his actions. He’d gripped it by its neck and raised it high, and Lestrade had snatched it out of his hands immediately. _He’s still alive, and you went back for this. It means something to you. Don’t destroy it._ He’d told him, not knowing the worth of the instrument he’d saved from destruction. Victor told him about it later, and he’d never felt more relieved in his life.

 

 If sex wasn’t on the table, that hardly meant a thing. They loved each other. It was so obvious it hurt.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Mycroft scoffed.

 

“Exactly.” Lestrade said; stepping passed the man and standing in front of the boys. “Don’t be ridiculous. Whatever you’re selling, they don’t want it, and if you can’t tell they love each other – you’re blind.” Mycroft scoffed.

 

“You’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Sergeant.” It still rankled that this man knew who he was, when he didn’t have a clue as to who _he_ was. Sherlock’s brother, apparently, though Lestrade hadn’t realized he’d even had a brother. From what little he had said about his family, Lestrade didn’t blame him for not sharing this piece of work.

 

“Get out of our flat, Mycroft. Unlike you, Lestrade was actually invited.” Sherlock griped, clenching and unclenching his fists.

 

“Sherlock, I can make things very difficult for you.” Mycroft said, leaning forwards despite Lestrade’s solid presence between them.

 

“Try it.” Lestrade hissed, holding up a hand as a warning. Mycroft smiled like a shark, eyes beady and filled with promises of death and destruction.

 

“Be very careful Sergeant. I can make your life very uncomfortable.”

 

“That’s enough, Mycroft.” Victor declared. He stepped around Lestrade, took hold of Mycroft’s arm, and studiously marched him to the door.

 

As they left, Lestrade took the opportunity to look back to Sherlock. He was biting his bottom lip, nervous and unsettled. The fingers of his left hand were tapping against his thigh. His eyes shifted to where his violin was sitting. He didn’t go to collect it. “Are you all right?” Lestrade asked him carefully.

 

“You shouldn’t have said that.” He replied. His hand continued to tap out a quick beat even as he met Lestrade’s eyes. “He is actually capable of doing as he says.”

 

“Who is he?”

 

“My brother.” Sherlock replied. “He’s…determined to have a place in my life.” That didn’t sound too bad, but from the scene Lestrade had just witnessed, and the way Sherlock’s eyes pinched in dissatisfaction, it was obvious worse than he imagined. “Or rather, he’s determined that I have a place in his.”

 

“Not on your terms, however?” Lestrade guessed.

 

“It’s not that it’s not an interesting offer. It could be exciting, and fascinating.” Sherlock’s eyes trailed towards the wall that blocked the view from the door. Mycroft and Victor were still talking in hushed tones, neither could hear what was being said. “He’ll take him up on it.” Sherlock admitted quietly.

 

“Victor?”

 

“He already has. Likely sometime last week, judging by Mycroft’s stress level. Victor was supposed to convince me to join him. He hasn’t tried, so Mycroft stepped in.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Lestrade asked, concern rising. Sherlock didn’t answer right away, more interested in whatever beat his fingers were entertaining on his leg. “Sherlock…you must know that Victor loves you. That he would never do anything that would hurt you?”

 

“It’s not about hurting me.” Sherlock said dully, shaking his head in dismay. “That will happen with or without Mycroft’s help.”

 

“Sherlock…”

 

“He was always going to leave.” Sherlock murmured, closing in on himself even more. He stopped tapping his leg and instead turned to walk towards his bedroom. Lestrade was left standing there, with no idea how to make any of this better.

 

By the time the front door closed and Victor returned, he was half way through convincing himself that it might be best if he just left. Staying wasn’t going to help, and they obviously needed to talk about whatever had just transpired. Victor scanned the room for Sherlock, and but when he saw that he was gone, didn’t go to the bedroom to check up on him. Instead he moved straight to Lestrade.

 

“Sherlock said you were going to leave.” Lestrade said, wondering if it was his place to intervene.

 

“I am.” Victor agreed. “Sometimes he’s too smart for his own good.” He smiled, small but fond, at the thought. “How do you begin to say goodbye to someone who already knows you’re leaving, before you’ve said why?”

 

“By not leaving.” Lestrade replied. He had stepped over the mark somewhere, but he didn’t understand this. He didn’t understand Victor’s insistence on leaving Sherlock anywhere. Victor didn’t seem to mind, however. Instead, he just nodded his head an

 

“When we first met, I told you that our families didn’t accept our life choices.” Lestrade remembered that day. He took it to mean their relationship. From Mycroft’s display, that didn’t seem like it was too much of a stretch. But Mycroft had called him _Victor’s_ paramour, not Sherlock’s, and it was bizarre and uncomfortable to think there might be more to it than what seemed so obvious on the surface. “Sherlock’s brilliant. Quite possibly the most brilliant man I’ve ever met, with the exception of Mycroft. Mycroft just sees things differently from Sherlock, and he’s older too, so it’s hard to compare them as to who is brighter. Seven years from now, Sherlock could be just as bright as Mycroft is today, and yet none of that will matter to either of them.”

 

It sounded like an old argument, one rehashed time and again. “What are you getting at?” Lestrade asked, hoping to get Victor back on track.

 

“Sherlock and I were offered a job from Mycroft years ago. We turned it down. Sherlock doesn’t like his brother well enough to justify working for him, and frankly I think he’d do the opposite of what Mycroft wanted just to be contrary.”

 

“But not you?” Lestrade clarified. Victor sighed.

 

“I love my country.” Victor said vaguely. “There’s an appeal to working for Mycroft that is undeniable. Sherlock doesn’t understand. He wouldn’t.”

 

“Victor what are you planning on doing?” Lestrade asked him, looking at him nervously. Victor sighed.

 

“Mycroft works for the government. There’s something he’d like me to do. It’ll take me out of the country for a while.”

 

“How long is a while?” Lestrade struggled to clarify. Victor grimaced.

 

“A while.” The clarification didn’t help, but Lestrade doubted it was meant to. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. After everything that was going on, after everything they’d been through together: Victor was really going to just leave Sherlock? For a job? That didn’t seem right. It didn’t seem _logical_.

 

“Why are you doing this?” Lestrade asked him seriously. “Right now. Why are you making this choice?”

 

“I believe in it.” Victor replied. “Could you stop being a cop? If your wife asked you to? If Marissa asked you to stop, could you do it?”

 

“It’s not the same thing.” Lestrade shook his head. “You weren’t a…government person prior to this.”

 

“I was.” Victor said simply. “I was. I was exactly who I’m being now. I stopped. I took time off for him. Because he was more important at that time. But…they need me for this. They do.”

 

“Need you for what? What do they need you for?”

 

“I can’t tell you that.” Victor said quietly. “But it’s important. It is. I’ve been a soldier on leave…and now I’ve been called back into service, and Sherlock won’t come with me.” Lestrade didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how he was supposed to say it. He didn’t even know which person he should be comforting more. Neither were happy with the situation, but there was no end in sight.

 

“Will you be able to keep in touch?” He asked, letting his eyes trail to the bedroom door.

 

“Sometimes.” Victor replied. “There’s no guarantee.”

 

“Make time.” Lestrade told him firmly. “If you have to leave, leave, but for God’s sake- make the time to call.” Victor didn’t look convinced. If anything, he just looked more upset. “And while you’re gone, I’ll keep an eye on him.” That did surprise him. The soon-to-be-PhD recoiled in shock. His mouth dropped open and his eyes bugged out somewhat. Lestrade held up a hand. “You two…you’re good lads. And whatever it is you’re doing, it’s important or you wouldn’t just leave him like this. You need to leave him, and I get that, so I’ll keep an eye on him while you’re gone. Make sure he’s all right…and doesn’t fall into a squalor like you did last time. But you have to come back.” Lestrade told him firmly. “You have to promise him you’re coming back. _No matter what_.”

 

“I can’t promise-”

 

“Do it. Victor. Promise him. Promise him, or come to terms with the fact that you’ll have to leave for good, and never come back. You can’t just walk out like this and expect him to wait on a hope with no contact at all.”

 

“I don’t expect anything! I just…”

 

“Go.” Lestrade stepped forwards and squeezed his shoulders. “Go talk to him, work it out. I’ll be here. My offer still stands. But let me know what bag I’m going to be stuck holding. The one where I’m helping him wait for your return, or the one where I’m picking up the pieces after you’ve left for good. I’ll wait.”

 

He gave Victor a nudge towards the bedroom, and then turned to sit on the couch.

 

Six hours later, just as he was losing his battle with staying awake all night: the verdict was made.

 

Someday, Victor would come back. Lestrade hoped he could hold the bag until then.

 

 

 

5\.  Years slipped by. Birthdays and anniversaries came and went. Marissa found love elsewhere, and their timeless marriage started to fall apart. Sherlock started drugs, Sherlock came off drugs, Sherlock started them again, Sherlock may or may not be off them again. Lestrade hired him as a consultant, and Sherlock had a wardrobe change. He hoarded money and then stockpiled it into his clothes. It made him look older, more experienced.

 

Sherlock tried a beard. He hated the beard. He tried a moustache. That looked worse. He had a flat on Montague Street, and then, he moved into a flat on Baker Street. He met John Watson, things changed.

 

“Have you told him about Victor?” Lestrade asked him once, seven years from the day they had met, looking out over the city and seeing nothing but dull despair and dirty buildings.

 

“There’s nothing to tell.” Sherlock had replied. Lestrade wondered what the truth was. Did Sherlock think so ill on those times? Or did he finally hear the death knell ring on a relationship that Mycroft believed didn’t exist to begin with?

 

Sherlock went to crime scenes. He played the violin. He yelled and argued, and was inconsolably rude to those around him. He fought with the other officers on the scenes, he didn’t bother to make friends.

 

Somehow, he started to collect them instead.

 

Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, John…they all started to surrounded him droves, smothering and loving and completely incomprehensible to his sensibilities. He tried to push them way, declared he was incapable of feeling anything. He lied, constantly.

 

And then, at a crime scene that had launched him into a rant about police incompetence, his phone rang. A soft violin piece filled the air, and it was so alarming that Sherlock froze mid word. His eyes widened. His hand went to his pocket, and Lestrade watched in growing concern as Sherlock answered it.

 

“What?” He asked, looking more shaken than Lestrade cared to remember. He started walking. Straight out of the room, straight down the hall, straight out the door. John called after him, trying to figure out what was going on. Officers were left in open confusion. Lestrade followed John, rushing after Sherlock’s retreating figure as it walked mindlessly down the street. He caught John’s arm, and held him back.

 

“Wait. Just wait.” He insisted, not letting John go until he knew for sure Sherlock was all right with him over hearing whatever it was Sherlock was saying.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“I can’t explain. I don’t know for sure, but I think…I think it’s important to Sherlock. He should have some privacy.” John grimaced, and looked to the consultant as he wandered aimlessly.

 

Sherlock wasn’t talking often, but when he did it came out in a foreign language that Lestrade couldn’t place. He was tense, uncertain. His arm fell to his side as the call ended, and he pressed one hand to his eyes.

 

When he finally turned and saw them loitering, he immediately sought Lestrade’s eyes. “Can you get me to Bristol?”

 

“Yes.” Lestrade agreed. The case could wait. He’d deal with the politics afterwards.

 

“Wait, what’s going on? Sherlock-” John reached towards him, but Sherlock shook his head.

 

“Not now, John.” He replied, lost in his own head even as he scanned the road for Lestrade’s car. He saw it on the corner and was all but vaulting to get there. John watched, looking more uncertain by the second.

 

“Sorry, John. I’m sure he’ll explain later.” Lestrade said, hoping he wasn’t lying to the good doctor. He followed after Sherlock, and climbed into his vehicle. Only a few moments after that they pulled onto the main road and started for the most expedient route to Bristol. “Victor?” Lestrade confirmed, just to be certain.

 

“He’s coming home.” Sherlock replied.

 

Lestrade wondered if it could still be considered home if Victor had never stepped foot inside the flat Sherlock now lived in. He wondered if it could still be called home if Victor had last even laid eyes on Sherlock six years ago. He wondered if any of that mattered.

 

“For how long?” Lestrade asked, determined not to get his own hopes up if he could manage it. Victor had kept his promise and stayed vaguely in touch. A phone call every few months, a stray email or postcard. It hadn’t been much. Lestrade had hoped for more. He was a little bitter in his own right.

 

“For good.” Sherlock replied, practically shaking in his seat. He didn’t seem to know what to do with the information. The world before his eyes shifted and changed into something intangible and wrong.

 

It had been six years.

 

Six years was a long time.

 

The drive to Bristol seemed longer.

 

Victor was seated on a park bench, over looking the suspension bridge that towered over them. Lestrade stopped the car outside the park, and Sherlock barely waited for it to stop moving before he was out of the vehicle and bounding across the grass. Victor twisted in his seat, and he looked like a sight for sore eyes.

 

Darkly tanned from his time away, more muscular and finely honed. His Egyptian-cross necklace (which Lestrade now knew to call an _ankh_ ) still hung from his neck. He had a bag over one shoulder, but he dropped it to his sides the moment Sherlock appeared before him.

 

Time melted away.

 

They clung to each other like men gasping for their dying breaths. “It’s good to see you. God, it’s so good to see you.” Victor chanted the words like a prayer, repeating them over and over. Each second was a rosary bead that slipped back into the rotation as he whispered each word _ad nauseam_. 

 

Victor didn’t know what to do with his hands. They clutched at Sherlock’s coat, his neck, his hair, his arms. Each time they moved they held on with greater passion. He clung tight and fierce, and Lestrade had no doubts that Sherlock was mimicking the behavior. Remarkably both maintained their composure, for the most part, until Victor finally choked out Sherlock’s name. “God, Will-” Sherlock gasped loud, and then his shoulder’s hitched.

 

Lestrade felt tears pressing to his eyes, and any anger he had towards Victor’s rogue disappearance fled amongst the pure relief that he was back. He’d made it back safe. Wherever he’d been, for whatever reason, he was back now. He wasn’t leaving again. It was over. Finally.

 

“Will…Will…” He called Sherlock’s name, and Lestrade was struck by the memory of the old tales on the power true names had. Knowing a man’s true name bequeathed the bearer of such knowledge the ability to bend a man to his will. Victor used Sherlock’s name now, not to force him into submission, but to reveal his own. It was a prayer, a promise, a pledge. He was coming home, and he’d never leave again. It was over.

 

When they finally parted, Lestrade was able to wrap his arms around Victor himself. He welcomed him back, and embraced the gratitude Victor heaped on his shoulders for looking after Sherlock for all those years. It shouldn’t have been worth it to hear those words. _It was_.

 

He led them back to the car. Victor tossed his bag in the boot, and he sat in the back seat. Sherlock sat with him. They leaned against each other, held onto each other’s hands as tight as they could. They never let go.

 

Sherlock asked Lestrade to drive them back to their old apartment, the one that they used to live together in. Lestrade did so. Apparently Mycroft agreed to float the flat for them for however long it took for Victor to come back.

 

“Thank you.” Victor told Lestrade, time and again. “Thank you.” Victor told Sherlock, time and again. “Thank you for waiting.”

  
Lestrade wished it hadn’t taken as long as it did, but he’s happy – nonetheless. He’s satisfied that everything was going to be okay again. They’ll figure it out. They always seem to.

 

One week later, Sherlock threw himself off of a building.

 

Three days after that, Lestrade watched Victor stare at Sherlock’s gravestone, pale as a ghost.

 

Victor disappeared out of his life after that, and Lestrade spent the next few months listening for any sign of a follow up suicide to match Sherlock’s.

 

It never came.

 

 

 

 

+1.   Lestrade was stripped from his position as a Detective Inspector after Sherlock’s suicide. Quite frankly, he was glad to be rid of it. It had caused nothing but the evaporation of his marriage, and the inability to save the one person he thought was really capable of doing such wonderful work in the world.

 

Marissa moved back in with him after Sherlock’s death. For all of the differences that had grown between them over the years, Marissa had genuinely liked Sherlock and Victor. She sat by his side, and they grieved for him together. She told him that she never wanted to hear that he died. He wished her the same. They began to work it out.

 

Anderson started to talk in Lestrade’s ear about how Sherlock was still alive. Conspiracy theories multiplied by the hour, and Lestrade eventually was forced to make the command decision to have the man leave his employ. He couldn’t listen to one more crazed assumption. Guilt did funny things to a man, and clearly Anderson was no exception to the rule.

 

He’d hated Sherlock in life, and now in death he was desperate to earn forgiveness. Forgiveness that was only on the table because all the evidence cleared up the moment two bodies appeared at St. Bart’s. Sherlock and Moriarty, dead by suicide each, innocent and villainous. Scotland Yard knew the truth, and now it was struggling to let the public know it as well.

 

Lestrade’s job was reinstated, his contacts were re-established, and his life was put back in balance. He kept in touch with John, he visited Molly, and he placed flowers at Sherlock’s grave. Every few weeks he called Victor, leaving him a message and asking him to call him back.

 

“If you could…just come by sometime, so I know you’re all right…so that I don’t worry about you as much. That would be really great. Good luck, lad…with…whatever you’re doing now.” Lestrade left a variation of that message on Victor’s phone often. He never received a reply.

 

Anderson started to arrange pub-nights. He’d tell Lestrade about how Sherlock was still alive; he’d prove it to him on maps. He’d be desperate for approval and understanding, and all Lestrade could see was Sherlock’s bashed in head, lying on the metal slab in Molly’s morgue.

 

Lestrade had trouble getting through his days at work. The joy was gone. The appreciation was gone. He looked in the faces of the homeless and the poor, and he saw two boys struggling to do right by themselves, and failing miserably in the process. He saw to very loved boys being torn in opposite directions, incapable of ever finding the cohesion they deserved.

 

John stopped talking to him.

 

Other contacts started to fall away.

 

He handled a case where a young girl was murdered. He watched as her mother broke down in tears. He watched as she sobbed hysterically, and built a shrine out of her daughter’s room. She wouldn’t allow anyone to go in there. She couldn’t bear for anything to be different. She screamed with emotional agony, and Lestrade watched her fall apart.

 

He had no children of his own. He might have wanted to adopt two boys, once, long ago, but no longer. He couldn’t do that any longer. He couldn’t build a shrine in his home to honor the death of a son he never had. He couldn’t even if he tried.

 

Lestrade muscled through each day. A true Brit, he stiffened up his upper lip, and carried on like a brave soldier. That’s what people did. That’s what he had to do. There was nothing more true than that.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_Lestrade? It’s Victor. I got your message. Thank you. I mean it. Thank you…for caring. For thinking about me. You made me promise once, to return to London, to get there and be with Sherlock because he was waiting for me. He didn’t come with me then. He should have, I suppose…would have saved a lot of trouble now. But he didn’t come with me then. I promised you I would return, that I would help him in any way I could. Lestrade…I will always keep that promise. I’ll come back to London. I promise. I just need more time. I hope you’ll forgive me. But we’ll talk later. Ta._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Lestrade listened to the message again.

 

And again.

 

And again.

 

And again.

 

_What the fuck did that mean?_

 

The message floated through his mind over and over. He couldn’t get it out of his head. After all this time? Months? Why would Victor leave _that_ message on his phone? Why would he say those words, phrase them the way he did? It didn’t make sense. Why would he do any of that?

 

The questions plagued him for days. He wasn’t sure how he managed through work. He wasn’t sure he managed at all really. Sally picked up more slack than she should have, and he never bothered to thank her for it. He just kept thinking, considering, trying to understand the message that he burned into his mind. Why would he say it like that? Why would he bother?

 

Anderson begged him to go out for a pint, and he agreed. He paid just as much as attention as he always did: barely any. Except, right when Anderson was giving some half-arsed idea that involved carrier pigeons, the answer slapped him clear across the face.

 

Victor thought Sherlock was alive. He had made a promise to help Sherlock. Sherlock hadn’t gone _then_ , but he needed to go now. Moriarty. The government would be interested in that. They’d be very interested in tearing down that network.

 

Lestrade threw himself to his feet and out of the pub. Anderson yelled his name in dismay, but he wasn’t listening. He started breathing rapidly, thoughts circling like crows to carrion. He could feel his heart beat pulsing under his skin as he pulled his phone from his pocket.

 

This time, he left a very different on Victor’s phone.

 

 _Good luck. Come home safe. I’ll keep an eye on your old flat for you._ Not Baker Street. No, Victor and Sherlock wouldn’t care about Baker Street. They’d care about _their_ home. Their flat that was shoddy and terrible, but was sacred like the first burnt ash off a new phoenix’ wings. Their home.

 

A text came in almost immediately. One word only: **_Obviously._** Lestrade felt his breath catch. Another message followed. **_Thank you for the offer. Be home as soon as possible._**

 

Lestrade felt tears push to his eyes and he pressed the phone to his lips. He drew in a half-choked sob of relief and gasped as hope and love warred for attention in his heart. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear the truth. He hadn’t realized how much Anderson’s badgering was truly tormenting his psyche.

 

He’d needed to know Sherlock was alive. He’d needed to know Victor was alive.

 

They were both alive, and they were coming home. Maybe not right this second, but they were coming home. He felt a weight remove from his chest. Years of life returned to him as he clenched his hand around the phone. He’d needed that. He truly had.

 

 ** _Be safe. GL_** He tapped back to them.

 

 ** _Of course._** Unsigned. Always unsigned. It didn’t matter. It was Sherlock speaking through Victor, and Lestrade would take what he could. He could wait.

 

And he did.

 

He waited for another nine months until Sherlock finally presented himself before him. When he finally did, Lestrade could do nothing but pull him into his arms. The world righted itself perfectly. “Is Victor safe?” He asked Sherlock as he adjusted his grip around the detective who slowly raised his arms up to hold Lestrade back.

 

“Right here, old man.” Victor replied quietly, slipping out of the shadows as well.

 

Lestrade pulled him in, too. He held them both. His boys. He’d pulled them up off the street, and they were so loved. So very, very, loved. He felt in perfect balance once more. Sherlock’s death had been one blow nearly too many. His return: helped in ways he couldn’t imagine.

 

He couldn’t quantify any of that, however, because all he could manage was this:

 

“Thank you, thank you lads.” He repeated the words over and over, and they let him. They didn’t complain, they didn’t argue, they simply stayed put, willing to be held as long as he wanted.

 

He wanted a lot.

**Author's Note:**

> Got a prompt you want filled? Want to just say hi? Let me know!
> 
> falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com


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